


LETTING SAM GO

by sinfuldesire_archivist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-04-19
Updated: 2008-04-19
Packaged: 2018-09-03 07:34:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8703358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfuldesire_archivist/pseuds/sinfuldesire_archivist
Summary: Dean makes a different kind of deal after Sam dies.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at [Sinful-Desire.org](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sinful_Desire). To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Sinful Desire collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sinfuldesire/profile).

Dean knew it was wrong to bring Sam back. He knew he was betraying all of his beliefs by not letting something dead stay dead, but he simply could not help himself.

 

Having Sam back for one night once a month, and he didn’t even have to sell his soul to get it? It sounded too good to be true. Of course, like all things like that, it was….but Dean needed to be with Sam again, and he didn’t stop, even for a moment, to consider if that was what Sam would want as well. 

 

He just made the deal.

 

***

 

Well, not at first. Not immediately.

 

First, he drank. Drank anything he could get his hands on, and spent his days in an alcoholic daze, angry and bitter and so very twisted. He rages and screams and sobs and considers suicide—but he’s too much of a coward for that, he decides. Better to kill himself slowly with alcohol anyway—he wants to suffer, wants to feel pain. He deserves it—after all, he let Sammy down, let his dad down—he didn’t protect Sam, didn’t save him….he failed.

 

He tried to hunt, but his heart wasn’t in it anymore. Most days he did not have the strength or the desire to even get out of bed, much less hunt. He eked out an existence on pool hustling and credit card scams like always, and continued to move from town to town. He dumped the Impala though—hard as it was—he just couldn’t drive her anymore. Too many memories, too many ghosts…

 

Six months. He resisted for six months, then he could resist no longer.

 

Drunk out of his mind, he reached blindly for his father’s journal and found the pages he needed—the ones that showed him how to do it, even as it warned the reader not to.

 

And then….

 

 

Dean looks up, eyes wide, as if he can’t quite believe that it worked. He stands, frozen in place and unable to move, just staring at Sam in wonder.

 

For his part, Sam looks bewildered, confused. He looks around like he has no idea where he is, and then—as realisation dawns—the look of confusion turns to one of sadness and pity as his eyes fall on Dean. He knows what’s happened and what Dean has done—and even though he doesn’t approve, he understands why. Dean couldn’t live without him—Sam had always known that on some level. It was why they had both always hoped that Dean would die first, so he wouldn’t have to try and live without his baby brother who was his entire world.

 

“Sammy…” Dean finally says, eyes filling with tears.

 

Sam manages a sad smile and walks towards his brother. There is no anger, only acceptance and love in his eyes. He tries to understand, even though he knows that what Dean has done is dreadfully wrong.

 

They embrace in silence and Dean lets go of his steely self-control, sobbing, uncontrolled, into Sam’s shirt, before pulling it off of him as he begins to kiss the torso, explore the body he has missed so much.

 

Sam stands there and lets his brother touch and lick and kiss. He whimpers as he is divested of his clothing and led to the bed reverently, laid down gently, and then Dean is turning off the lights to make love in the dark.

 

“Missed you so much, Sammy…” Dean whines against warm skin.

 

“I know, Dean…I know…” Sam manages to reply, running his hands through Dean’s short hair soothingly, swallowing against the lump in his throat that is there to remind him how wrong this is.

 

He’s watched, from the vantage point of purgatory while Dean slowly self destructed over the last half-year. He had hoped and prayed that his brother would find the strength to let him go. But all that time, he knew that it wouldn’t happen—Dean was simply too weak. He needed Sam far too much. So, Sam was not even surprised when he felt his soul being pulled towards life again—disappointed, but not surprised.

 

Sam feels sick. He doesn’t want this—he never did, not even in life, and certainly not now, in death. He only ever did it because Dean had given him so much and given up so much and he felt that he owed it to his brother. But he had never wanted it, not really….

 

Dean had always been pathetic and the closest Sam ever came to telling him how he truly felt about him was in that old abandoned asylum years before. It used to piss him off how needy and desperate Dean was, how much he loathed himself and how he gave everything away with each look he gave Sam, telling him with his eyes how Sam was everything to him and how Dean would die without him. It made Sam’s skin crawl.

 

But now it just made him sad—sad for Dean. Sad that Dean could only find a moment’s peace when he was doing sick, disgusting, forbidden things to his own baby brother.

 

“Sammy, please…need you so much….let me…let me be inside you, Sammy….I know its wrong…I know I shouldn’t…I have too…please, Sammy?” Dean’s voice is raw with pain and Sam closes his eyes against the pain and desperation there.

 

“Yeah, Dean…it’s okay….do it, take what you need, Dean…yeah…” Sam whispered, staring at the ceiling and trying not to flinch.

 

He had been saying those words—or variations on them—for years, since the first time Dean came to his bed, when Sam was sixteen. 

 

Dean had been drunk that first time, probably had needed the alcohol to lower his inhibitions, but he wasn’t too drunk—he knew what he wanted, what he needed. 

 

Sam had tried to say no that night—and many other nights afterwards, but he always gave in—not because Dean was ever violent or forced him—but because Dean was so lost without him, and needed it so much that Sam felt like he had to let him.

 

After a while, he stopped trying to say no, just let Dean have him. Then he went away to college—and yes, it was partly in the hopes that he could finally get away from his brother and his sick desires—and when he saw Dean two years later, he tried once more to say no.

 

They had been in Jericho, hunting the Woman in White, and Dean had slid into the bed of the motel room, naked, pressing hardness against Sam’s ass, pleading in a whine that made Sam squeeze his eyes shut and pray that this was only a dream.

 

“Please, Sam….been so long…” he had groaned.

 

“I can’t, Dean…Jessica…please don’t ask this of me…”

 

It was no use, because Dean was drunk and horny and so very lonely, and he kept whining and pleading until Sam finally sighed and said yes, and then Dean was sliding inside of him and crying against his back, begging forgiveness as he fucked his brother, “I’m sorry, Sammy…just this once, okay? Just…please…feels so good. Love you, Sammy…Sorry…sorry I want this…I’m a sick fuck, I know that…need you, Sam….”

 

 

Tonight, years later and months after Sam had died, it was no different. 

 

Dean’s body hard and desperate against Sam’s his desperate pleas, and Sam’s capitulation.

 

When, at last, their mouths found one another in the darkness, the kiss is slow and soft and/…sad. So very sad. Tears slide down both their cheeks and mixed together. Sam made a soft, desperate noise, as if he were in pain, and Dean keened like a wounded animal in a trap, but the kiss did not stop, did not end. In fact, it grew deeper, wetter, more desperate, until both men were panting with arousal and shame in equal measure.

 

Dean whispers the whole time, begging Sam to understand, to forgive him.

 

“I had too, Sammy…you understand, right? Don’t hate me, Sam, but I couldn’t live without you…I had to see you again….need you so much….”

 

He sounds so sorrowful and repentant that Sam can’t do anything except nod and whisper soothing reassurances, “Shhh…its okay, I understand…I forgive you, Dean…love you, Dean….” Between kissing and touches and tears.

 

Dean straddles his brother and rides him, head thrown back in passion. The sex is fast and over too quickly, but it is perfect—because they are together again. Dean spends hours loving—no, worshipping—every inch of Sam’s body. The younger man allows it, tries to sooth Dean’s anguish, his pain.

 

Dean holds onto Sam until the last possible moment, and he cries when Sam reluctantly pulls himself away and walks towards the door. But he doesn’t stop him—he knows this is the deal. He can have Sam—but only once a month, and only for five hours.

 

 

FLASHBACK:

 

It made Dean sick more often then not, when he thought about it—the physical part of his relationship with Sam. As much as he needed and wanted it, he knew it was wrong and always had been.

 

They’d been lonely; confused…horny teenagers left on their own too often. Sam had been young and frightened by what was happening to his body and—like always—came to Dean for help-- and Dean had been too messed up to stop himself…. he’d told Sam to lay back and close his eyes, and then he’d bent his head to his little brother’s erection and taken it in to his mouth.

 

He would never forget the whimpering sounds of confusion, lust, and fear that issued from Sam’s mouth then first time Dean had gone down on him. He’d bucked his hips violently, and quivered with need, before coming quickly down his big brother’s throat.

 

When the violent tremors past, Dean let the flaccid member slip from his mouth and slowly forced himself to look up at Sam. His brother was staring down at Dean with eyes blown wide. He looked terrified and sated all at once, and Dean was certain that he had never seen anything so beautiful.

 

Slowly, he eased himself up his brother’s young body, carefully trying not to spook him, “Shhh…its okay, Sammy…. it’s all right…did it feel good? Did you…like it?”

 

After a moment, Sam had nodded, and that was all it took for Dean to thrust against him desperately, kissing him full and deep on the mouth, forcing Sam’s mouth open with his questing tongue, even as he ground his own painful erection against his teen brother’s flat belly.

 

When he came, moaning, Dean had never felt so out of control—and it felt good. 

 

A month later, he felt a similar sense of uncontrolled passion, as he slowly eased his dick into his younger brother’s opening for the first time. He’d been drunk, and Sam unwilling to take it that far, but he had convinced him, and then—just like that—they were fucking hard and fast in the dark motel room.

 

They had laid on their sides with Sam’s back to Dean’s chest and Dean had gently bit Sam’s shoulder as he entered him, quieting Sam’s whines with whispered words, “Sammy, relax…its okay…just…let me…oh, God, Sam! So fucking tight!”

 

Sam had been sixteen and Dean had been almost twenty.

 

After that, they had sex almost every night until Sam left for Stanford and broke Dean’s heart. And Dean never, ever got past Sam—not with Cassie or anyone else he bedded in the mean time. It all meant nothing compared to his Sammy…and when he slept with Sam again, Dean felt whole again for the first time in two years.

 

END FLASHBACK:

 

 

Sometimes, Dean still sleeps with other people—women mostly, but the occasional man or two as well. A guy has needs, after all.

 

He knows they all think he’s a loser; some kind of drifter. They never ask him to stay, not that he would if they did—but sometimes he thinks that maybe it would be nice if they just…asked. 

 

When he sees Sam and they make love, he loses himself in the momentary pleasure, and tries to slow down the time so that he can be with Sam for just a little bit longer.

 

When Sam leaves and he is alone again, the four walls close in around him and he hates himself more than ever…so he goes out and picks up a woman or a man and takes them back to whatever motel room that passes for his home on that particular night, and tries to forget about Sam, if only for the night.

 

Fucking…that’s all it is. It’s not what he has with Sam—its not making love, but the pleasure is enough to ease his pain, and he needs it. He loses himself inside a woman, all wet and warm and soft, writhing and whimpering under him, or riding his lap while he sucks their nipples, plays with their tits, explodes in their pussies or their mouths or over their tits, groaning….coming apart and feeling vulnerable, tears burning his eyes as he surrenders to his body.

 

Some of the women want to hold him afterwards. They stroke his face or his hair and look at him as if they know how broken he is and want to save him-- but he knows they can’t. Sometimes he fucks them again before he leaves, but usually he just lets them hold him because it feels…nice.

 

The men are rougher, quicker. Most of them want a quick fuck or a suck off in an alley. Some of them don’t even bother to care if he comes or not. Some of them like to hit him, call him degrading names…he lets them. He welcomes abuse-- always has for some sick reason even he doesn’t understand.

 

There’s one guy—Jason in Chicago—who is different from the rest. He ‘s younger than Dean. He has dark eyes and a shy expression. He looks like Sam—how Sam might look now if he had lived…. and he’s sweet like Sam was, kind to a fault. Way too trusting….takes Dean back to his place, makes love with him in his bed, tenderly and slow, and makes Dean coffee and toast in the morning.

 

Dean loses himself in Jason for a few days--weeks? Doesn’t matter…time doesn’t matter anymore. They fuck until they are both exhausted, and then sleep entwined in one another’s arms. When Jason takes him, he wants to do it face to face and he stares at Dean the whole time, as if trying to unlock all his secret pain, and Dean cannot hold his intense stare and looks away, tears threatening.

 

“What was his name?” Jason asks breathily, moving gently inside Dean, covering his face with light kisses and hot breath.

 

Dean doesn’t bother to act dumb or ask Jason what he’s talking about. He just breaks a little bit and swallows hard, “Sam…his name was Sam…”

 

Jason comes then, crying out softly and closing his eyes and Dean knows right then that this…whatever it is…is over.

 

They lay in bed after, smoking and talking, laying naked in the sheets. Jason caresses Dean’s scarred and taut chest, listening mostly, looking sad because he knows that Dean will never, ever be his.

 

“I’m sorry,” Dean says around dawn.

 

Jason just smiles sweetly and says, “I know.”

 

And that is that.

 

He jerks off a lot after that, not wanting to hurt anyone else like he did Jason. He feels guilty for how he used Jason, and he’s pretty sure, when he thinks back on it, that he probably called out Sam’s name a few times when they fucked—not that Jason would ever have said anything, but Dean just has this…feeling.

 

He hires a few whores—men and women. People he doesn’t have to make excuses to or explain himself to. One girl lets him fuck her ass for an extra fifty and he pants against her back and calls her Sam, and she assumes he means ‘Samantha’.

 

A male hooker lets him fuck him against the wall in the shower and doesn’t care at all when Dean breaks down against his back and sobs like a child, “I love you, Sammy…I miss you so fucking much, Sam…”

 

He just stands there silently while Dean fucks him and cries at the same time. The only noise he makes at all is when Dean comes and bits his shoulder. Then he grunts and tells Dean that his hour is up.

 

Dean manages a cold smile with the cash and wonders—not for the first time—what the fuck he is doing with whores….

 

 

***

 

Each time Sam comes back, he’s a little more withdrawn; a little bit quieter. Dean tries not to notice, but it’s impossible to ignore.

 

They fuck in Montana next—a little town with a small main street like all towns had once. It’s a throwback to a lost time, a forgotten era—Sam thinks there’s something rather ironic about that.

 

Dean cries through most of the act, and even through his orgasm because yeah, he wanted Sam back—but not like this; not this way…this is just torture. And now he understands why dad’s journal said to never, ever bring someone back from the dead.

 

Afterwards, Sam holds his brother gently against his chest, staring at the ceiling and stroking Dean’s back with one large hand while Dean purrs against his smooth skin.

 

The silence is awkward, and then Sam finally speaks, “This has to stop.” He says simply, and Dean stiffens slightly in his embrace.

 

After a moment, Dean sighs, “I know.” He whispers sadly.

 

If Sam feels Dean’s tears splashing against his chest, he doesn’t say anything about it.

 

“Dean, look at me.” Sam asks softly, and Dean forces himself to look up into his brother’s beautiful eyes, “This is wrong. It’s not natural. You have to let me go. You have o accept that I’m gone.”

 

Dean swallows thickly, tears sliding down his face, “Sam…” he says and he sounds so very broken. He can’t go on, and before Sam even knows what’s happening, they are making love again.

 

 

****

Sometimes when they meet, it’s gentle, and sweet and sometimes it’s hard and rough and almost loveless. It doesn’t matter because for Dean its always good, always the best. But it makes Sam sad to see his brother settling for…this. Makes him sad to see how lost Dean is. He feels guilt, and shame—guilt that he died and left Dean, and shame that he ever allowed himself to become the cornerstone of Dean’s existence in the first place.

 

He tries to make Dean see sense, to no avail.

 

“I see you with them sometimes,” Sam admits one morning in bed, “The girls…the guys…the whores…”

 

Dean swallows and looks away.

 

“Jason loved you.” Sam tells him sadly.

 

“Don’t!” Dean warns in a clipped, warning tone, “Just…don’t. Not here. Not now.”

 

“He could have made you happy…” Sam presses and it sets Dean off and he’s suddenly grabbing at his head as if it’s going to explode and his eyes are wide and his hands are shaking.

 

“Shut up!” he snarls, “Shut the fuck up!”

 

He starts swinging wildly at Sam, and his punches connect several times. Sam doesn’t fight back, just lets Dean hit him a few times before using his long arms and superior strength to subdue his hysterical brother.

 

Dean resists, and then falls against Sam, sobbing and hissing, “I hate you! Fucking hate you for leaving me! I don’t want Jason! I don’t want any of them! I wanted you! I just…wanted you, Sammy!”

 

Sam holds him and strokes his hair and whispers, “I know, Dean. I know, and I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for leaving you. I am.”

 

And at some point, like always, the anger gives way to passion and the pain gives way to pleasure and Dean is laying under Sam and his brother is making love to him soft and sweet and Dean thinks—knows—that he will go mad from the pleasure, from his love for Sam. Knows that he already has….

 

 

***

Another month, another nameless motel room.

 

Sam lays looking at Dean, on his side, “What do you do these days?” he asks, reaching out to stroke Dean’s cheek gently.

 

Dean’s face clouds over, and he looks bitter and angry for just a moment, before he smirks, “Wait for you.” He replies honestly, and Sam’s heart breaks a bit more.

 

 

“What’s it like?” Dean asks one night, “Dying?”

 

“It hurts.” Sam replies flatly.

 

Dean swallows thickly and takes a deep breath

 

“Is there anything—after this?” Dean asks, actually hoping for the first time since he was a child that God exists and that there is a Heaven, but Sam just smiles at him sadly and shakes his head.

 

“I can’t tell you that, Dean. You know that.” Sam sounds exhausted.

 

Dean laughs angrily, “Well, there must be, Sammy! I mean, you don’t just wait around waiting for me to call you back once a month, do you? You must go somewhere!”

 

“Do I?” Sam replies enigmatically, “Must I?”

 

Dean looks tormented, “Why won’t you tell me?” he pleads.

 

“I can’t. Its against the rules.” Sam pauses, and then adds something—just to hurt Dean, “And if I did tell you, even if I told you there was a paradise beyond here—would it make a difference? Would you let me enjoy it? Let me go? Or keep plucking back into your own personal hell to fuck?”

 

Dean wants to scream, but he kisses Sam hard instead.

 

Sam’s right—it wouldn’t matter.

 

 

***

 

Dean’s hair has gone grey mostly and the lines in his face are more pronounced then ever, but Sam still looks the same—eternally twenty-four and gorgeous.

 

But Sam looks defeated…. desolate. He just stares as Dean approaches him in the parking lot of a motel in West Texas, smiling.

 

The smile fades from Dean’s face as he sees the vacant look in Sam’s eyes, and he slows his advance, but doesn’t stop. He reaches his brother and slides his arms around the lean, muscular chest, resting his head against the younger man’s chest, “Sammy…you came back again…” he says, “Thankyou.”

 

Sam flinches at the touch but doesn’t pull away, “I didn’t have a choice,” he says flatly, and Dean decides to ignore that; ignore the fact that if Sam had a choice, he wouldn’t still be visiting Dean after all these years.

 

“I’m sorry…” Dean says softly, feeling guilty.

 

“Not sorry enough to stop, obviously.” Sam replies, with his best bitchface on.

 

“I…”

 

“Don’t.” Sam cuts him off, not wanting Dean’s excuses, “Just….let’s…get on with it.”

 

Dean is devastated by Sam’s words and coldness, but what else could he really expect? He’s surprised its taken this long for Sam to get sick of it all—being pulled back into this shithole of a world once a month to satisfy his older brother’s needs.

 

He allows Dean to strip him naked and pull him back towards the bed in the motel room, where they fuck for a few hours—Dean desperate and so very lost and whispering words of love that long ago turned to something much darker, much more tragic, and Sam lays there, pliant and participating but only just. Dean notices but acts like he doesn’t. It’s too painful to acknowledge that what he is doing is not what his brother wants—not anymore… maybe it never was.

 

Dean notices something else too—the sex isn’t even enjoyable to him, not anymore. He comes, but there is no pleasure in the release. He is just left with regret and guilt.

 

When it’s over, he lies in Sam’s reluctant arms, and stares at the clock on the bedside table, watching their minutes together tick away. He’s crying, his tears slide down his face and onto Sam’s hairless chest.

 

“I don’t want to do this anymore.” Sam says finally, and Dean sighs, “If you love me…like you say you do…you won’t make me do this anymore.”

 

Dean slowly looks up into Sam’s face. He realises now, for the first time, that he’s been so selfish, so cruel. Sam may not be able to say it, but Dean knows what’s going on here now--Sam can’t move on, can’t move onto the next level—if there is one—or rest in eternal peace—as long as Dean is there, calling him back time and again. Sam’s locked in an eternal holding pattern, and its all Dean’s fault. He does just wait around, neither dead nor alive, unable to be either. 

 

He nods slowly, “It’s just that…I don’t know how to let you go.”

 

Sam strokes Dean’s still handsome face and smiles sadly, “I know…but its not that hard, not really…you just stop summoning me…just stop. I know it will be hard for you and I’m sorry, but you gotta do it, man. Do it for me, please? Just…let me go…just…stop.”

 

Sam begins to cry then and he is crying about so many things. Dean just watches him fall apart and he knows in that moment—just knows in his heart—that Sam is right. He HAS to let Sam go—he loves his brother too much to keep him trapped between the world of the living and the world of the dead any longer. In fact, he is disgusted with himself for doing it to Sam for as long as he has.

 

Summoning every once of strength he has left, Dean makes his final choice. He kisses Sam’s hand as it still caresses his face and nods reluctantly, “Okay…” he whispers, voice drenched with pain, “I’ll do it, Sammy…I’ll let you go—for your sake.”

 

Sam looks shocked, then manages a soft smile, “Thank you…” he whimpers and he begins to cry as well—because he never knew Dean could be so strong. 

 

He never counted on Dean loving him so much that he would let him go.

 

They make slow, tender love as the final hour ticks away, and this time it's truly beautiful in a way that it never been before. When Sam enters Dean a final time, the older man is staring up at him with a mixture of love and sadness and peace in his eyes. Sam comes from that look alone, and his orgasm is the last thing he feels as he fades away for a final time….

 

 

***

 

Sam looks up from the book he’s reading and into the blinding smile of his older brother, Dean, as the older brother walks casually into the room as if he belongs there—and he does.

 

It seems like only minutes before to Sam—when he was pulling away from Dean and out of his arms for a final time. They had been making love and then it was over, and Sam was alone again…then he was transported to this place. He had no idea what this place was—no one has come to explain anything. But Sam is at peace here. All the things he loved in his lifetime surround him—books and games and music and everything that makes him feel peaceful and calm and…happy, just happy.

 

It seems like he has only been here for a short time—maybe an hour at most-- and yet here is his brother—there with him, in eternity. How did Dean get here?

 

“That was quick!” Sam exclaims.

 

Dean cocks an eyebrow, “Its been seventeen years, you asshat,” he snarks, “Time must fly when you’re reading Melville.”

 

Sam glances down at his copy of Moby Dick and laughs, “Guess so. Time don’t mean much around here…”

 

He stands and stretches lazily.

 

“I’m getting that.” Dean smiles and throws himself against Sam suddenly, surprising the younger man with the sudden move and the intensity of emotion behind it, “Last thing I remember was hunting a hellcat in the Bayou…guess it must’ve got me…”

 

Sam smiles and slowly brings his arms around his brother’s torso soothingly, “Yeah…guess so. Seventeen years, huh? I can’t believe that. It feels like…minutes…” he shakes his head at the enormity of eternity.

 

Dean buries his head in Sam’s broad chest, “Yeah? Well, it sure seemed like seventeen years to me—longer, even.”

 

Its quiet for a long time, short time…no time at all…

 

“Well, all that’s over now…” Sam soothes, “Now we can be together…for real.”

 

“I’m sorry, Sammy…. sorry I couldn’t let you go…” Dean mutters softy.

 

“Its all over now, Dean. Its okay…its all over now.” Sam says with love and forgiveness in his heart.

 

Dean doesn’t even ask about dad or mom or anyone else. He doesn’t ask anything. All he does is sob against Sam’s shirt for a while, before shoving Sam back against the tree he was sitting under, “Take off your clothes…” he growls, “I’ve got seventeen years to make up for.”

 

Sam smiles—because for the first time, he actually wants it too. Suddenly, Dean’s desire doesn’t feel wrong—it feels right and it feels like love, and suddenly Sam is overwhelmed with a desire to love Dean as much as Dean has always loved him.

 

“God, want you so much, Sammy…” Dean moans as he runs his hands over Sam’s muscled chest desperately, needy.

 

Sam groans at how good it feels. He kisses Dean, long and possessive and then pulls back, caresses Dean’s face lovingly for a moment and replies, “Now you can have me forever…”

 

END


End file.
